Chapter 45: The kick in the nuts for West Brom

The new season was just around the corner, and every day felt like a new episode of "Who's Joining Leeds United Today?" Bates, watching from a distance, looked like a man trying to smile at a wedding he wasn't invited to. Every time Leeds United's official website posted another flashy player signing, his blood pressure went up a notch. Sebastian Deisler. Dimitar Berbatov. Falcao. Maicon. Mascherano. Thiago Silva. Juanfran. Xavi bloody García. He stared at his laptop screen, fists clenched so hard his knuckles turned white. "This lunatic's spent at least forty million euros," Bates muttered to himself. "Probably fifty. There's no way he pulled this off legally." His assistant, Martin, hovered nearby, sipping instant coffee that tasted like sadness. "Maybe he robbed a bank?" Bates shot him a look. "Don't joke. I am the one robbing banks now, remember?" The irony was not lost on him. Just one year ago, Arthur's Leeds had been circling the drain—saddled with debt, a skeleton squad, and no hope. Bates, meanwhile, had strutted around like a king, hoarding players and cash. Now? Bates was the one calling his banker every morning like a nervous dad checking his kid's test scores. Worse still, he couldn't figure out where Leeds was getting the money. There'd been no official announcement of transfer fees. No detailed press releases. Just a parade of smiling players holding scarves like they were joining a cruise ship rather than a football club. "Twenty million for Deisler and Berbatov alone," Bates grumbled. "And then a small army of kids. This man's cooked the books." But what really kept him up at night? Tevez. Bates had been chasing Carlos Tevez like a man trying to catch a taxi in the rain with no umbrella and only two buttons on his coat. He made offer after offer, hoping Arthur's supposed greed would kick in. He was sure the lad would wait until the price peaked before selling. He was also hoping—desperately—that Manchester United hadn't sealed a deal behind his back. There were occasional whispers in the press, mostly from United's side, but no announcements, no updates. Just radio silence. So Bates clung to hope. His logic was simple: if United and Leeds had reached an agreement, Arthur wouldn't still be entertaining his offers. He'd have pulled Tevez off the market by now. In the meantime, Bates had been quietly cleaning house. West Brom had sold off its last player a few days ago, and the funds landed in his account just this morning. For the first time in weeks, he had over €30 million burning a hole in his pocket. And now, he was done waiting. "No more games," Bates muttered, tapping his phone screen like a general calling in an airstrike. "Send the offer. Twenty-six million. If Leeds doesn't take it, I'm triggering the release clause and ending this nonsense." Martin hesitated. "You sure? What if he's—" "Martin," Bates said calmly. "He's greedy. He's held me off this long hoping I'd get desperate." Martin raised an eyebrow. "And...you're not?" "No!" Bates snapped, then paused. "Okay, maybe a little." Meanwhile, at Leeds' training ground, Arthur was blissfully unfazed. He was sitting under a tree with a bottle of water, watching his squad stretch after another passing drill. Allen came jogging over, looking both amused and out of breath. "You're not gonna believe it," Allen said, waving his phone. "Bates just offered twenty-six million for Tevez." Arthur didn't even flinch. "He's finally there, huh?" Allen nodded. "Took him a month, but yeah. He's finally cleared his bench and brought the money." Arthur scratched his chin. "So... he thinks he's still in the race." "Should we respond?" Arthur leaned back and grinned. "First, check something for me. Has West Brom sold off everyone they listed? Then let me know" As soon as Arthur returned to his office after training, the phone rang. He checked the caller ID—Allen. Right on time. He answered with a casual, "Yeah?" Allen's voice practically exploded from the other end. "Boss! Confirmed! West Brom has finished their clear-out. Every last player they listed is gone. Bates is loaded up and ready to pull the trigger. Today's offer—twenty-six million—it's gotta be his final test. He's probably expecting us to bite." Arthur grinned and leaned back in his chair. "Good. Don't reply." There was a pause. "...Don't reply?" "Nope," Arthur said, deadpan. "Tomorrow morning, the official site goes live with the Tevez to Manchester United announcement. Ten o'clock sharp." Allen let out a low whistle. "You really held him on the hook for this long..." "I wasn't done fishing yet." After ending the call, Arthur wasted no time. He picked up the phone again and called Ferguson. The gruff Scottish accent answered after the second ring. "Arthur." "All set on your end?" Arthur asked. "We've been ready for weeks," Ferguson said. "Thought you'd never let him go." Arthur smirked. "Just wanted to make sure someone else got a little heartburn out of the deal." "Bates?" Arthur chuckled. "Ten a.m. tomorrow. You'll want to refresh the site." Ferguson grunted his approval. "I'll have the press lined up." With everything arranged, Arthur finally let himself breathe. For the first time in weeks, he wasn't juggling ten different fires. This was months in the making. Since the day he'd taken over at Leeds, Bates had been lurking in the background like a bad smell. He wasn't just some rival chairman—he was a predator, always circling, always looking for weakness. And Leeds, not too long ago, had looked like an easy target. Half a year ago, Arthur had already fooled him once, using the system to bluff his way through a crisis. But that was a bandage on a bullet wound. It bought time, nothing more. Deep down, Arthur had known that Bates wouldn't stop until someone kicked him off the chessboard for good. Now, it was time to slam the door in his face. He could already picture it: Bates waking up early, smugly sipping his tea, believing he was about to land Tevez. Then opening the Leeds website to find a full-page banner: Carlos Tevez signs with Manchester United. Glorious. Arthur leaned forward, elbows on the desk, staring out the window at the distant training ground. It was quiet now. But come tomorrow morning, all hell would break loose—for Bates, at least. And the timing was perfect. There were still about twenty days left in the transfer window, but the striker market was already dry. All the decent forwards had been snapped up. Bates had been so focused on stalling Arthur that he'd let everyone else raid the shop shelves. Now he had money, but nowhere to spend it. Worse still, he'd sold off nearly every experienced player in the squad to raise that money. West Brom were down to a patchwork team full of academy kids and second-choice backups. It was like trying to build a castle out of wet sand. Sure, Bates still had cash. Maybe thirty million left. But what use was money if no one wanted to come? Arthur snorted. "Good luck attracting a big-name striker with a team full of children and a manager who thinks 'tactics' means 'hit it long and pray.'" Blackwell's defensive counterattack style was outdated even in the Championship. In the Premier League? It would be like bringing a butter knife to a gunfight. Arthur doubted they'd survive until the winter transfer window, let alone turn things around. "Bet they're both gone by Christmas," Arthur muttered. He grabbed his notebook and started scribbling a few reminders. Ticket sales revenue was coming in soon, which would stabilize finances. Kit sales were already up thanks to all the new signings—Berbatov jerseys were flying off the shelves. Leeds was debt-free. Stable. On the rise. West Brom, meanwhile, had just bet the house on a player they weren't getting. Arthur closed his notebook and leaned back in satisfaction. The club had survived its darkest chapter. Now it was moving forward—with a squad full of hungry talent, an actual tactical plan, and no more vultures circling overhead. Tomorrow morning would be the start of a new era—and a very bad day for one man in particular. Let's see how Ken Bates explained this to the bank. Loan repayment plan: Step one, panic. Step two, bankruptcy. Step three, blame the weather. Arthur allowed himself one final thought before heading home: Should've sold quicker, Ken. Now you've got a pile of kids, an empty front line, and a season full of pain coming your way. And he didn't even feel bad. Well, maybe a little. But just enough to laugh. *** Before 10 a.m. the next morning, Ken Bates was already at the West Bromwich Albion club office. He hadn't slept well the night before. Leeds United hadn't responded to his generous 26 million euro offer for Tevez, not even a polite "we'll think about it." The silence made his skin itch. Bates, not known for his patience, had tossed and turned through the night like a toddler full of fizzy drinks. So, bright and early, he wolfed down a half-hearted breakfast—half toast, half muttered swearing—and rushed to the club, hoping for an update. Maybe Arthur had responded by email? Maybe the fax machine had finally spat something out? But just as he stepped into his office, before he could even take off his coat, there was a loud knock at the door. Actually, no—more like a bang. Then the door flew open. Blackwell stormed in, red-faced, breathing heavily like he'd just run laps around the pitch. Bates blinked at him. "Kevin?" he asked, glancing at the clock. "Isn't it a bit early? Training doesn't start for another hour." Blackwell didn't answer right away. He slumped into the chair across from Bates like someone had punched the soul out of him. "Boss, I swear, I'm about to lose it with those kids," he groaned. "We've been drilling zone defense all week, and they're still standing around like cones. Cones with legs! And don't even get me started on the counterattack drills!" Bates winced. "Yesterday, we set up a simple three-man break. You know what happened?" Blackwell continued. "The ball's passed, and the lad up front doesn't trap it. He chests it—like we're playing beach football. Ball bounces five meters away. Five! We had to go fetch it out of the hedge!" Bates opened his mouth to say something—anything—but then quickly closed it again. He didn't have an answer that wouldn't make things worse. This was, after all, entirely his doing. He had been the one who promoted half the youth squad to the first team. He had been the one who insisted they sell the senior players to "raise funds for a top-class striker." He had dragged Blackwell into this mess, promising him the world and giving him a locker room full of teenagers with bad haircuts and no positional sense. Still, he had to say something. He waited for Blackwell's breathing to return to something resembling normal human function, then said carefully, "Kevin, I understand your frustration. But look, we've still got twenty days left in the window. I've come in early today to prepare the final offer to Leeds. I'll activate the release clause. Tevez will be ours by tomorrow." Blackwell squinted at him. "You sure he hasn't gone anywhere else?" Bates waved the concern away like it was a fly. "No updates. No announcements. Nothing from Leeds or United. Arthur's playing hard to get, but he wants the money. He'll take it." Blackwell didn't look entirely convinced, but he nodded, stood up, and smoothed out his coat. "Well, if you get Tevez in, that solves the biggest problem. I'll try and scare some sense into the kids today." "Attaboy," Bates said, forcing a smile. "Once Carlos is in, everything else will fall into place." Blackwell made it to the door, hand on the knob—when the door burst open again. This time it was Bates' assistant, out of breath, eyes wide like he'd seen a ghost. "Boss! It's bad! Leeds—Leeds United's official website—it's been updated!" Bates sat up like someone had jabbed him with a fork. "Updated?" "Yes, just now! You have to see it!" The assistant turned the club laptop around and slammed it on the desk. Bates leaned forward, Blackwell hovering behind him. The headline was massive. Centered. Unmissable. CARLOS TEVEZ JOINS MANCHESTER UNITED Beneath it was a photo of Tevez shaking hands with Ferguson, beaming like he'd just been handed a Ferrari. The club statement followed below, all polite words and carefully crafted nonsense about ambition and mutual agreement. Bates didn't read past the headline. His mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. Blackwell was the first to speak. "...Well, that's bad." "WHAT?!" Bates exploded. "He went to United? When? How?!" The assistant, now backing away slightly, said, "I think... I think they agreed everything in private and just waited to announce it." Bates slapped the table. "But we had the money ready! We were about to—this morning—I was going to trigger the damn clause!" "Yeah, well, they beat us to it," Blackwell said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Seems like Arthur played us." Bates stared at the screen, heart pounding. He'd waited too long. Tried to be clever. Tried to squeeze every last discount out of Arthur—and Arthur had outmaneuvered him, calmly and quietly. "Wait," Bates muttered, a sinking feeling replacing his rage. "Who's even left on the market?" Everyone went silent. The assistant pulled out a short list of remaining forwards still available. Bates took one look and groaned. The names weren't just second-choice—they were "please don't get injured or we're doomed" choices. Meanwhile, his club had just sold off half their proven talent and replaced them with kids who didn't know what an offside trap was. The fans were already grumbling, and the press would be all over this by lunchtime. And worst of all, the season started in just a few weeks. Bates stood up, paced the room, and then sat down again with a heavy sigh. "...Maybe I can call the bank." Blackwell raised an eyebrow. "To do what, exactly?" "I don't know. Get a loan. Find someone else. Anyone." Blackwell looked at him flatly. "Good luck. You just lost your marquee striker to your biggest rival. Your squad's made of toddlers. And the manager's about to get a nervous breakdown from training with cones in boots." Bates sat there, staring at the website, his grand plans now crumbling in real time. Arthur, that smug little brat, had outplayed him completely. And now he had to figure out how to explain this to the fans. And the board. And—God help him—the press.